“Crazy woman made me light grease fire.” Ragnar Son of the Mad Titan and the Twelve Harpies of Winter explained to Father Milton, Cleopatra, Langley, Crowhead, and Zune.

“She come in, and ask ‘Why is fume hood?’ Owner very upset. Her and companion did not even pay for food! If I find this woman again…” Ragnar sharpened his ax on the grindstone that had been requisitioned from Galadhorn’s home.

“Things like this happen all of the time in Eden.” Father Milton explained. “Weren’t you in a bar fight last week?”

“Dah.”

“And how is this any different?” Cleopatra asked.

An icy tempest formed within Ragnar’s pupils, frost formed on the ground around him. The howling winds of winds assaulted the door to the backstage of the set of The Slightly Late Show With Zune Tee-em.

“It is start of villain arc. I know these things from book. War is coming.”

Zune summoned his ethereal microphone, and channeled the power of late night television, hoping that, perhaps, just perhaps, he might find a question to get to the bottom of this matter. It was like his vision was clouded by a great fire. Guy Blanco was not speaking today. The kobold did not think this was ominous, as fires in the warrens of Menthoralix are usually associated with good things, so he ignored the strange interference in his supernatural abilities. The next best thing he could do, he decided, was to have faith in humanity, as that was one of the most important parts of being a late night television talk show host, according to Guy Blanco.

“I think we should assume the best! She was probably just overwhelmed with joy by the efficient and necessary precautions as written down in the Eden Incremental Environmental Improvement Organization’s health and workplace guidelines.” Zune, although humble most days, could not help but to brag about the beautiful rules and regulations he had written as the new executive director of his 503c nonprofit. While late night television was his first and foremost passion, as a kobold his second love, almost as strong, was for the beauty of bureaucracy. He imagined his siblings

“Wise words, master Zune.” Crowhead said.

Ragnar thought through this point for a moment, and decided that he too agreed with the kobold. Safety regulations were unfamiliar to the people of Eden. It would take time for people to see the beauty within them that Zune said was there, although Ragnar had to admit he still had trouble seeing books as anything else but terrifying. Zune explaining that regulations were written in blood had helped with some of Ragnar’s unease, though.

“If you all would excuse me, Crowhead and I have some shows to plan.” Zune excused himself from the meeting, and Crowhead followed. The two now found themselves walking the newly-refurbished set of The Slightly Late Show With Zune Tee-em. The I’mos had outdone themselves. Not only had they completely removed any sign of damage from the Killer-Throatslitter-Taxevasion-Littering interview, they had completely redone all of the furniture in exactly the style of The Very Late Show With Guy Blanco. All that was missing, however, was an eye-catching backdrop. In the last episode, unfortunately, the canvas had been merely a beige backdrop hung up to keep backstage out of sight. This time the I’mos had taken it upon themselves to paint it their sacred color: black.

Zune quickly pulled a rat out of his rat sack and swallowed it, before looking over the rather well-done monochrome canvas. Something was missing, he just couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Crowhead could see a puzzled look on the kobold’s face.

“Is something the matter, Master Zune?”

Zune felt the fine paintwork of the backdrop. Truly, it was excellent craftsmanship, almost as good as the painters back in the warrens. However, something deep in his stomach was telling him it was just not right. Or was it that rat he had just eaten? Zune pulled out his microphone and channeled the power of Guy Blanco once more. Although it was not show time, he could feel the stage amplifying the potency of the late night television energy that swirled within his core. Or, again, was that just the rat he ate? Visions of the fateful evening Guy Blanco had bestowed his infinite wisdom and kindness upon him ran through his head faster than credits at the end of the The Very Late Show With Guy Blanco. A large flat piece of wood, painted like the moon, hung down from ropes in the rafters of the set, but the background of Guy Blanco’s set would not come into view. It was blocked, once again, by fire.

“Something is missing.” Zune strained under the effort of his powers. “Let me think.”

Sweat ran down Crowhead’s forehead. Was he to be punished for painting his Master’s set backdrop black? The master hadn’t realized that the door to the green room, once red, had also been painted in the sacred colors of the I’mos. Would he hate that too? This could be very bad for Crowhead indeed. He tensed his body as he prepared for a deadly mosh.

Zune sat down behind the desk on his set, and continued channeling the energy of late night television. He would not be held back by this fortunate interference in his powers. Zune reflected on the teachings of the esteemed host, his guardian. He heard Guy’s voice clearly in his head.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Folks! Sometimes a story isn’t just about a person, but a whole community.

Sweat ran down Zune’s entire body as he gripped his microphone tighter.

I got my first job on a recommendation. And now look at me! If it weren’t for this community of people, this entire production team, I wouldn’t be here. You think I could paint something beautiful like-

Flames roared in Zune’s ears, and their brightness in his spiritual vision increased tenfold. But Zune did not relent. Would not relent. This was about community.

“But what do you mean, Mister Blanco?” Zune forced his voice through his struggle.

All around green late night television energy wrapped the stage like a sea of ivy, converging on the tiny kobold’s body like a funnel.

Such an advanced level of cultivation. Fear and awe struck Crowhead like a sledgehammer striking the glass case that contained the Annals of the Fire Department. He couldn’t move. He had to watch. Had to learn.

And thank you to all of you watching. Guy’s voice now could be heard all throughout the studio. Whether you’re in town, or on the other side of the planet, you’re part of something larger. Bigger. More beautiful. My name is Guy Blanco, and this was our guest-

The fire intensified once more. Zune doubled down.

Make the world a better place to love things. Good night folks!

And then Zune saw it: a horror beyond human comprehension, the mere thought of it could kill. A place inhospitable to life. An impossible place that sustained itself on the crushed dreams of mortals. A place where only those who had ascended to the heavens could even survive as it tried to devour them from the inside. And if it had been any lesser being than Zune who had looked upon the unspeakable horrors of this place, their very being would have been extirpated.

Los Angeles, California.

And upon comprehending the name of this eldritch abomination, Zune saw past the non-very-ominous-at-all flames that had once clouded his spiritual late night television senses, and saw Los Angeles in a different light: painted to be beautiful. Painted as to make the world a better place to love things.

I love to paint. Real Galadhorn’s words echoed in Zune’s head.

“Of course!” Zune cut off the late night talk show energy to find that a powerful wind had damaged part of the set. Crowhead had been knocked to the ground from the sheer power channeled here. Father Milton, Cleopatra Bingley, Langley Pinkerton, and Ragnar all peered into the set from backstage, their mouths open wide in awe.

“Follow me, we’re off to talk to Real Galadhorn!”

***

Zune led his motley crew behind him to the tent where Galadhorn was resting. It had been several days since the interview, and the orc still had not woken up.

“We need to wake him up!” Zune said, as he placed his microphone in front of Galadhorn’s mouth and channeled late night talk show energy.

“We’ve tried everything, he won’t wake up. Too much of his soul was taken. Better to quit while we’re ahead.” Crowhead said, dazed from being thrown nearly fifty feet from Zune’s raw power.

“Quitting is for Jimmy Fallon!” Zune touched the forehead of Real Galadhorn with the microphone, imbuing the orc with energy. Although the orc did appear to stir, and his eyes twitched, the soul-rended orc couldn’t be roused from his seemingly-permanent slumber.

Zune thought for a moment. Guy Blanco, surely, would never lead the kobold astray. He knew as much.

“Crowhead. Do you have Killer-throatslitter-taxevasion-littering here still?”

The I’mo gulped. The room went silent with shock.

“Master, you surely don’t mean to-”

Zune nodded.

“But what if-!” Crowhead steadied himself. “We don’t know! Nothing will destroy it. We’ve tried everything there is.”

“Quitting is for Jimmy Fallon. Bring me the paint brush formerly known as Killter-throatslitter-taxevasion-littering!”

“What if we can’t contain it? Not that I question your power.”

“Guy Blanco has not led me astray so far. He will continue to provide.”

The rest of the crew nodded, and urged Crowhead to grab it. The I’mo ran over to a large safe in the room, entered the combination (which was the same as his luggage), and pulled out a small unassuming wooden box.

“It is unsafe for me to touch. Please be careful Master Zune.”

Zune opened the box, and gingerly grabbed the paint brush by the handle. He could no longer sense the words “Killer,” “Throat,” “Slitter,” “Tax,” “Evasion,” or “Littering” within the paint brush. Its name was very certainly: Paint.

Energy surged through Zune’s hand as he levitated paint with sheer talk show power on to Galadhorn’s body. The kobold then set his microphone on Galadhorn’s forehead once more, and asked a question he did not even need to ask Guy Blanco to guide him to.

“Galadhorn, do you want to paint the backdrop on my set.”

Galadhorn’s eyes shot open, he was awake.

By Brestmylc, this is more potent than my powers at my prime. Father Milton thought to himself, nostalgic for what he once was.

“I think you would do an excellent job at painting the backdrop to my set. Paint it however you’d like.” Zune said.

A single tear rolled down Galadhorn’s cheek, and for the first time in many years he spoke uninhibited by an ancient, evil, sword.

“Paint.” the orc smiled.